The Golden One
Page 16
“Of what, the Saite chapels? I hope you aren’t thinking of shifting to another area. You haven’t the manpower to tackle the larger temples.”
“Well, I know that!” He glanced at Ramses, who was talking to Nefret, and lowered his voice. “The truth is, Emerson, none of us has got the skill for this job. Oh, sure, we can clean the place up and make proper plans, but what’s needed here is somebody to record the inscriptions and reliefs.”
“You can’t have Ramses,” said Emerson.
“Emerson,” I murmured.
“Well, he can’t! I know, I said the boy could do anything he liked and work for anyone he chooses, but – er – confound it, Vandergelt, stealing another man’s staff away is one of the lowest, most contemptible -”
“Gol-durn it, Emerson, I wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
Their raised voices had caught Ramses’s attention. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.
“No trouble,” Cyrus declared. “Um – see here, Emerson, I just got to thinking… How about if we trade places? You take Medinet Habu and I’ll take Deir el Medina.”
Emerson opened his mouth, preparatory to delivering a cry of protest. Then his scowl smoothed out. He stroked his chin. “Hmmm,” he said.
“Cyrus, that is an outrageous suggestion,” I exclaimed. “You can’t go trading archaeological sites as if they were kitchen utensils!”
“I don’t see who’s gonna stop us,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “The Service des Antiquités has got too much on its plate to bother with two respectable excavators like us. What do you say, Emerson, old pal?”
Emerson’s face widened in a grin. “You want to get at those tombs at Deir el Medina.”
“Any tomb’s better than none,” Cyrus retorted. “There’s none here. What I’d really like to do is mount an expedition to the Cemetery of the Monkeys, but -”
“You’d break your neck climbing round those wadis,” Emerson declared forcibly. “And waste your time. The most practical method of locating tombs in that area is to follow the Gurnawis – or go out after a heavy rainstorm, as they do.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like rain. Come on, Emerson, this job is right up Ramses’s alley. Look at him.”
He did appear to be enjoying himself. He and Nefret were absorbed with the reliefs – and each other. They were holding hands and talking in low voices as they moved slowly along the wall. With my customary rapidity of thought, I considered the pros and cons of Cyrus’s suggestion. There were a good many things in its favor. The reliefs needed to be recorded before time and vandals destroyed them. This was a perfect place for the photographic technique of copying Ramses had developed, and Nefret would work at his side – close by him, in a nice, safe, enclosed area. And while they were doing that, Emerson could root around the ruins to his heart’s content. However…
“Are we agreed?” Cyrus asked hopefully.
“Agreed on what?” Nefret asked, turning.
“Come and have some tea with Bertie and me, and we’ll tell you all about it,” Cyrus said.
As we left the chapel I lingered, looking up at the carved lintel. “An offering which the King gives, a thousand of bread and beer and every good thing…”
“Did you say something, Mother?” Ramses inquired.
“Just – er – humming a little tune, Ramses.”
“What is Father up to now?”
“I will leave it to him to tell you, my dear.”
And tell us he did, without asking anyone else’s opinion or voicing a single reservation. Having had time to reconsider the matter, I had thought of several. M. Lacau, who had replaced Maspero as head of the Antiquities Department, might not find out about our violation of the rules for some time; he had returned to France for war work, leaving his second-in-command, Georges Daressy, to carry on. Daressy was a genial soul, whom we had known for years, but even he might be offended by our proceeding without his permission.
Considerations of this sort did not enter Emerson’s mind. He had always done precisely as he liked, and had taken the consequences (though not without a great deal of grumbling). Realizing that Ramses had fixed me with a pointed stare, brows tilted, I was reminded of certain of those consequences, such as the time we had been barred forever from the Valley of the Kings after Emerson had insulted M. Maspero and everybody else in the vicinity.
I cleared my throat. “Perhaps we ought to give the matter a little more thought before we decide, Emerson.”
“Why?” Emerson demanded. “It is an excellent idea. Ramses will enjoy copying the inscriptions -”
“I would prefer to go on at Deir el Medina, Father,” Ramses said, politely but firmly. Emerson looked at him in surprise, and I gave Ramses an encouraging nod. It had taken him a long time to get courage enough to disagree with his father. “The site is unique,” Ramses went on. “Do you realize what we might learn from it? We’ve already come across a cache of papyri and a number of inscribed ostraca; they confirm my belief that the people who lived in the village were craftsmen and artists who worked on the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings.”
“They were servants in the Place of Truth,” Emerson interrupted. “Some scholars believe they were priests.”
“Their additional titles indicate otherwise. Draftsman, architect, foreman -”
“Well, well, most interesting,” said Emerson, who had lost interest almost at once. “Your opinion is of course important to me, my boy. We will discuss it later, eh?”
He was set on his plan and had no intention of reconsidering it. When Cyrus reminded him that we had agreed to attend one of his popular soirees that evening, he did not even swear.
I turned to Bertie, who appeared to be in a pensive mood, for he had not spoken after his initial greeting.
“What do you think, Bertie?”
His brown hair had become sun-bleached and his face was tanned, so that he was a pale shade of brown all over. One could not call him handsome, but his pleasant, guileless smile was very attractive. “Whatever you decide is fine with me, Mrs. Emerson. I’m just a hired hand, as Cyrus would say.”
“You appear to be in a pensive mood,” I persisted. “You are feeling well?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“You took up archaeology to please Cyrus,” I said, and patted his hand. “It was kind of you, Bertie, but he wouldn’t want you to go on with it if you find it distasteful.”
“I’d do more than that for him.” Bertie blushed slightly, as Englishmen tend to do when they give vent to their emotions. “He’s been jolly good to me, you know. I only wish…”
“What, Bertie?”
“Oh – that I could find something really first-rate for Cyrus. Not that I’m likely to,” he added diffidently. “I really am keen, Mrs. Emerson, but I’ll never be as good as Ramses. Or you, ma’am.”
“One never knows,” I said. “Many great discoveries are serendipitous. There is no reason why you should not succeed as well as another.”
After finishing our tea we returned to Deir el Medina to consult Selim and Daoud. Daoud had no opinion on the subject; anything Emerson chose to do was acceptable to him. Selim folded his arms and looked severely at Emerson.
“We have made a good beginning here, Emerson.”
“Cyrus and Bertie can carry on,” Emerson replied blithely. “The boy is turning into a pretty fair excavator.”
Selim glanced at Jumana, who was helping Ramses collect the ostraca that had been found that morning. “Will you leave her here with Vandergelt Effendi?”
Emerson grinned. “Does she annoy you?”
“She talks very loudly all the time. And I do not trust her.”
“You are becoming as cynical as your father,” I said. “I feel certain Jumana will tell us if Jamil attempts to reach her. Your inquiries in Gurneh have not produced any new information, have they?”
“No,” Selim admitted.
“Then if you have no further objections, Selim, we will proceed with
our plan,” Emerson said. “You and Daoud with us at Medinet Habu, of course, and Jumana as well.”
“Vandergelt Effendi will want to look for tombs here,” Selim said dourly.
“No doubt.” Emerson chuckled. “What’s the harm in that?”
Cyrus’s soiree was like all his parties – elegant and genteel. Since he was the most hospitable of men, he always invited everyone he could get hold of, so the company was mixed: friends who lived year-round in Luxor, tourists, a few professional associates – too few, alas, in these terrible times – and members of the military. I had got to the point where the very sight of a uniform depressed me, and I prayed that the day would soon come when the men who wore them could take them off and go back to their normal lives.
Those that survived.
I took a sip of the champagne Cyrus handed me and told myself to cheer up! No cloud shadowed Cyrus’s lined countenance, and indeed he was one of the most fortunate of men. Wealthy and respected, happily married, absorbed in work he loved, he had required only one thing to fill his cup, and Bertie had given him that – the devoted affection of a son, and a companion in his work.
“What’s on your mind, Amelia?” Cyrus asked. “You look kinda gloomy. Has that young villain Jamil turned up again?”
“No, we have heard nothing of him. I am sorry if I gave the impression I am not thoroughly enjoying myself, and I am ready to do my duty in entertaining your guests. Is there anyone you would like to be soothed, amused, or stirred up?”
Cyrus chuckled. “Especially the last. Anything you like, Amelia; but if you want to pick on someone, have a go at Joe Albion. He was a business rival of mine some years back, and he’s got one of the best private collections of antiquities in the world. I wouldn’t like to guess how he acquired some of them.”
“I didn’t know he was an acquaintance of yours,” I said, recognizing the rotund shape and round red face of Mr. Albion. “He and his family were on the boat coming over, and we ran into them the other day near Deir el Bahri. What an odd family they are, to be sure. Mr. Albion asked us to introduce him to some tomb robbers.”
Cyrus let out an emphatic American ejaculation. “Gol-durn it! Sounds like Joe, all right.”
“I thought he was joking. He is such a jolly little man.”
“Jolly Joe.” Cyrus grinned, but he began tugging at his goatee – a sure sign of perturbation. “Don’t let that fool you, Amelia. He’s got a reputation for going straight for the jugular.”
“His wife appears quite devoted to him.”
“It is an odd marriage,” Cyrus admitted. “She’s from one of the best families in Boston and Joe is common as dirt. Nobody could figure out why she married him; but she’s living like a queen now – and the boy was raised like a prince.”
I had no particular interest in talking with any of the Albions, so I moved about from one group to another, paying particular attention to those who were strangers or seemed ill at ease. It was my duty, but I cannot say I enjoyed it; most of the gentlemen would talk of nothing but the war. Emerson had been correct; the Germans had announced they would begin unrestricted submarine warfare, on all vessels of Allied and neutral nations. This put the tourists present in a somewhat awkward position. One of them, a tall, distinguished American named Lubancic, took the matter philosophically.
“They can’t keep it up for long. This is going to get the American government riled up, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see us get into this business pretty soon. Anyhow,” he added with a smile, “ Egypt ’s not such a bad place to be stuck for the duration. There’s plenty to see and do, and prices are cheap, with the tourist trade down. Do you suppose there’s any chance of my doing a little digging, Mrs. Emerson? Plenty of local men for hire, I believe.”
It was a common enough question; few visitors understood the regulations that governed excavation and many of them naively believed that all they had to do was dig to find a rich tomb. I was sorry to disillusion Mr. Lubancic, for he seemed a very pleasant fellow, but I felt obliged to explain.
“One must have permission from the Department of Antiquities, and all excavations must be supervised by a trained archaeologist. At this particular time there aren’t many such persons available.”
“The Brits and French have got something else on their minds besides archaeology,” said another gentleman. “The war on this front seems to be going well, though. The Senussi are in retreat and the Turks have been driven out of the Sinai.”
“But the British advance has stalled outside Gaza,” Mr. Lubancic objected.
“It’s only a matter of time before we take Gaza,” said a military officer, stroking his large mustache. “Johnny Turk isn’t much of a threat.”
His insignia identified him as a member of the staff, and his portly frame and flushed face suggested that he had fought the war from behind a desk in Cairo. Another, younger, officer gave him a look of thinly veiled contempt. “Johnny Turk was a considerable threat at Rafah, and Gaza won’t be easy to take. The city is ringed round with trenches and they’ve got fortifications along the ridges all the way from Gaza to Beersheba.”
The conversation turned to a discussion of strategy and I excused myself. The remote city of Gaza held no interest for me.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Cyrus’s soiree was like all his other parties – elegant, genteel, and full of boring people. Ramses always found Cyrus congenial company when there were no strangers present; he couldn’t understand why a man would willingly endure, much less invite, such a motley mob. There was no one he wanted to talk to. His family had deserted him; his mother was chatting with Katherine, Nefret was “mingling,” and his father, whose social graces were the despair of his wife, had ignored everyone else and gone straight to Bertie. From his animated gestures and Bertie’s deferential pose, Ramses felt certain Emerson was telling him what they had done at Deir el Medina, and what he should do from here on in.
Jumana was with them, looking very pretty in a pale yellow frock that set off her brown skin and sleek black hair. Ramses wondered how she felt about gatherings like this one. Even her superb self-confidence must be slightly daunted by so many strangers, many of whom, uncertain about her precise status, ignored or snubbed her. They wouldn’t dare be rude to another of Cyrus’s guests, but she was obviously Egyptian and they were not accustomed to mingling socially with “natives.”
His eyes returned, as they had a habit of doing, to his wife. She saw him; one eyelid lowered in a discreet but unmistakable wink before she returned her attention to the woman with whom she was conversing. She was tall and stately and glittering with jewels; when she turned her head, pointing out something or someone to Nefret, he knew he’d seen her somewhere, but couldn’t remember where.
He was rather enjoying his role as detached observer when someone touched him on the shoulder and he turned. The face beaming up at him looked vaguely familiar, but he was unable to identify it until the fellow spoke.
“ Albion. Joe Albion. We met on the boat coming over.”
Ramses did not contradict him. “I remember you, sir, of course,” he said politely.
The little man burst out laughing. “No, you don’t, young fella. Tried to meet you folks, but you managed to avoid us. Did your ma and pa tell you we met the other day on the path to the Valley of the Kings?”
“Er – no, sir.”
“I asked your pa if he’d introduce me to a few tomb robbers,” Albion went on. “He said no. Seemed a little put out.”
“Ma” and “Pa” had been bad enough; this bland statement made Ramses choke on his champagne. Albion smacked him on the back.
“Shouldn’t try to talk and drink at the same time, young fella. Don’t need your advice anyhow; there’s plenty of the rascals hereabouts, especially in that village – Gurneh. Talked to a couple of them the other day.”
“Who?” Ramses demanded.
“Fella named Mohammed.” Albion chortled. “Seems like everybody’s named Mohammed.”
“Just let me worry about that.” The smile was as broad, but for an instant there was a look in the deep-set eyes that made Ramses wonder if Albion was as naive and harmless as he seemed.
“Come meet my son,” the little man went on. His pudgy hand gripped Ramses’s arm with unexpected strength, and Ramses allowed himself to be towed toward a young man who stood apart from the rest, slouching a little, a glass of champagne in his hand and an aloof expression on his face. Probably the same expression that is on my face, Ramses thought. Either young Mr. Albion found the other people present not worth his notice, or he was shy.
He straightened to his full height, a little under six feet, when his father came up with Ramses. His thin reserved face and eyeglasses were those of a scholar, but he looked to be in good physical trim, except for being a bit thick around the middle. His sharply chiseled features warmed a trifle when his father introduced Ramses.
“Figure you two young fellas have a lot in common,” the older man went on breezily. “Get to know each other, right? Don’t stand on ceremony. Folks call you Ramses, don’t they? Some sort of private joke, I guess. Ramses – Sebastian. Sebastian – Ramses.” He chortled. “Never could understand the British sense of humor.”
He trotted off, and Sebastian said, “Glad to meet you. I glanced at your book on Egyptian grammar; seemed quite adequate, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on the language. Egyptian art is my specialty.”
Not shy. “Where did you study?” Ramses asked.
“Harvard.”
Of course, Ramses thought. The accent was unmistakable, and completely different from his father’s. Albion was what his mother would call a “common little man.” Ramses rather liked “common” people, but he wondered how the jolly, uninhibited Albion had produced such a supercilious, self-consciously intellectual prig. Sebastian didn’t seem to be embarrassed by his father’s manners, which was one point in his favor.